Kingmaker

Summary: come home Veer...

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Farida feels the weight of that sleep, in her limbs, on her eye lids, on each and every blurry thought. Then it melts away, almost as if snow at the edge of spring, some memory she brought from her childhood...maybe...the melting snow on mismatched tile roofs.

When she blinks her eyes into wakefulness, a burst of colours greet her. Daisies in full bloom, yellows, pinks and whites, even some rare ones with red eyes covered every surface. Artfully put together, tucked with ribbons and ferns. For a moment she breathes deeply, overwhelmed by it all.

Then Anwar is there. Her sweet, calm boy, always there to anchor her back to reality. He takes her hands with a prayer on his lips, tears in his eyes.

"Ammie. Ammie jaan!" He presses reverent kisses on her knuckles, overcome with relief in such an out of character manner. "You woke up!"

Slowly, the world widens, there's Rukzaar at Anwar's shoulder, one of her hands pressed into his shoulder while the other reaches out to touch Farida on her own.

At her feet stands Hedar and arm slung around shoulders of his youngest brother Omar who is already red eyed and beaming as he sniffed back tears.

At the door stands her husband, clearly summoned by the chaos their children were making, impeccable as ever and in the middle of some conversation with the doctor who immediately comes over to check on her.

Anwar, Rukzaar, Heder, Omar... even Usman was there. But...

"Veer?" She says as soon as the doctor finishes fussing over her. Rukzaar's hand tightens in her grip.

"Where's Veer? And Amrit?"

Anwar blinks and looks away, first at Rukzaar and then at his father.

Usman shifts on his feet. Farida tries and realises that she require help to sit up. Her limbs had drawn heavy and lethargic with no use. She reaches out to Anwar rather impatiently.

"Help me up!"

The sons comply almost at once. As Farida used to joke once upon a time, those three fine men could handle their hot headed old woman just as well. Sitting up, propped against the pillows Rukzaar arranges behind her Farida takes note on the varying decrees of guilt on each face before folding her hands.

"Omar," she says deciding to go for the weakest link from the first blow itself. "Bring me today's paper."

"Ammie woh -" Anwar ever the diplomat begins. Farida holds up a hand to hush him.

"The paper Omar jaan."

It doesn't take her very long to find out everything. The date of the paper tells her she's been out of it for three weeks.

The three weeks in which she had gone from a promising candidate in the election race to a party legend, while a prodigy had quickly risen among the ranks.

"Yah Allah yeh ladka," she mutters, skimming through the account of her party's last main rally held only the day before. The sensational article had given little attention to anything else but the youth who (the article put eloquently enough) was quickly taking up the entire system with a storm.

"A young nation - young leaders," it says in bold letters, "taking the fires of revolution to mold the future; Kuwar Pratap Singh, taps on the throbbing patriotism at the heart of a nation born again."

"And who is this -" Farida turns the page and chuckles, half amused and half exasperatedly impressed. "-of cause, Ranjhan!"

She looks up at Anwar, her eyes gleaming.

"I'm sure you are at your wits end with these two," she says rather understandingly and  then shares an amused smile with Usman.

"But you have to agree nobody could do a better job." Folding the paper she flaps her arms at Omar and Hader.

"Bring the whole lot, I need to see what the other papers are saying."

More or less, begrudgingly or with enthusiasm other papers had picked up the chord Aawaz had struck.

Going along with the theme Ranjhan had opened up for them.

"Where the father had left off; Legacy continues," says one.

"Exiled or excelling? Not the first inter- family dispute to change the political landscape."

Farida's chuckles grow into a full blown laugh at that. She wheezes rubbing her chest where the bandages still remain, her ribs ache and her eyes prick.  But the laughter bubbles forth.

"God gracious, they've gone to Mahabharata, Ramayana pretty quickly, haven't they? Can't see Nalini being pleased with this narrative. What is Darpan doing meanwhile?"

Anwar smirks at this point.

"Bluntly ignoring," he chuckles.
"Quite Royal coming from them."

"Oh," Farida wipes her eyes, smooths Veer's picture in the black and white print.

"He was born for this," she says, not even attempting to mask the pride in her tone.

"The fire in him, all that charisma. He is his father in spirit. But..." She sobers up then. "How did the general media pick up on the family dispute?"

"Babhi jaan did that," Rukzaar tells her rather proudly. She reaches over and picks up Aawaz from the heap of newspapers on Farida's lap. Going through it rather quickly she points out the middle page feature.

"Like everything Ranjhan writes in her column it is fictional of cause," Rukzaar says with air quotes. "But naturally everybody knows. You know the series of interviews she did with Bhaijaan, instead of publishing them as they are, she has spun it with her own input. The first half of Alfaaz e Ranjhan was her journey from a divided country to India. Now it is about her life in a divided family."

"Everything they did to him, to them. Everybody knows. But they can't stop her. They can't openly blame her. And aawaz, aawaz just flies off its stalls."

"Chaar Kadam," Farida reads from the paper. "Zindagi ke ore. She really is vicious, isn't she? Just wonderfully vicious!" She claps her hands together gleefully. "Where is she now? Our kingmaker - Mrs. Veer Pratap Singh?"

*

Vashma met Kabir today. I know they have a long way to become a family, to forgive and forget, to learn each other anew, but still a call of a mother to a child is such an undeniable one. Kabir is one lucky child, to have two mothers to care for him so deeply. One who had yearned and suffered to get to him, the other is willing to tear him out of her heart so that he could know his real mother.
I know I've never been very close to Chachi ji. But she is the kind of woman one has to appreciate, despite what Chachaji may think or feel...despite always being subservient to his choices, I'm impressed with how she took her stand once truth was revealed.
Reminds me of the night they got married. Vashma and Uday veerji. There is something surreal about saat phere, about those mantras. I had thought of you then.
I wished you were there.
I always do, but then, there are moments that overwhelm me with such a longing to reach out and take your hand, tell you then itself, what I felt or what I'm thinking of - and I miss you.
Twenty one days.
Yes, I'm keeping count. And no. Few bland letters keeping account of your day will not make up for it. No again. I will not call.
Aap ko aap ki telephone mubharakho!
Read instead, each words a little tease - just like you do to me. To touch this paper and to think that my hand had been here, inking these words - thinking, remembering, missing you.
Come home Veer. This has gone long enough. You can take a well earned break now. Or I shall not spare you a glance during the all candidates general media assembly where I will be representing Aawaz. I am adamant on that.
Did you know there is a person who switches on and turns off garden lights at Huzenabadh estate? I just got reminded because, he crossed the yard over looking my window, turning up the lights right across from where I'm sitting.
Does Shrighar have one of those as well?
I want to ask you trivial questions like that, not whether or not you have plans to improve education and health care. When will we have time for small talk again?
No. I will not call.
I was pleased to hear you had a good time visiting the villages.  True, they are your people one way or the other. As are you, their own, and always will be.
The photos were well received and I have thanked Yogi Bhaiya, he does so much, while you and I try to play this pointless tug of egos. And yes, he got the entire bowl of halva. Don't kill him for that. You know what you must be doing in case you need some for yourself.
I know which shot is your favorite. It did go into the print, you will see in the paper yourself, but the original copy remains with me. If I am to choose my favorite version of you, it is right there...you, humble, sincere, reading to kids who hadn't been to a school since long, squatting on the ground to reach their level, dirt on your knee, their arms around your shoulders.
Will you read to our girls someday like that?
This letter has gone all over the place. My thoughts are all over the place. And don't tell me it happens!
Anwar Bhai edits the articles now. On good days (nights actually.) I could articulate everything I want on paper, but they need to be fine tuned, sharpened like you used to. He does a tremendous job right? I wonder why he doesn't take up an editorial job for real. And letters like this - artless, as if some dam had burst open - those I keep especially reserved for you.
I must close it now. All the lights in the lawn have been lit and as I know, you must be writing your speech for tomorrow. I hope you remember to rest as well, enjoy the process of reaching your goals as much as the destination itself.
I hate this will take another day to reach you, and everything herd will be old news by then.
Miss you.
Miss you.
Miss you.
And thousand times more.
___

Veer folds off the letter, suppressing an urge to caress those letters inked with such need. The call of Home makes his heart clench, yet he folds it off with determination.

Manju watches him with hardly masked curiosity. The elderly woman who had spent a decade assisting Farida Begham knows enough of his moods to make an accurate guess of the origins of the letter. And she's an ardent reader of Ranjhan's column, a self declared fan. The thought makes Veer sigh, oh, she's bursting alright, wanting to know what Amrit had written, but wanting to appear nonchalant as well.

"What are we doing today, Manju ji?"

He asks instead, pressing his lips into a indifferent line. The lady clears her throat, trying to bit back a question. They had an agreement of "one personal question a week" going on since the start of Ranjhan's column and surely Manju had other important things to ask.

"Your morning is free, Kuwar sahab, I've kept time aside for you to go to court today."

Ah, the hearing. He recalls belatedly. Amrit's letter had unsettled his orderly thoughts and pushed Ranjit's hearing to the back of his head.

"And..." Manju pulls out ivory cardstock with a florish. "This came along with that letter from Nawabzade Anwar Siddiquie."

Veer reaches out and takes it. The card is an elegantly printed invitation to the several times postponed wedding of Uday and Vashma.

"Shall I keep time out for this?" Manju asks, her voice teasing and her eyes gleaming.

"Hmm," Veer thinks of the thinly veiled threat in Amrit's letter to ignore him if he ignores her any longer. Amused, his lips tug upwards at the thought.

"We'll see."

"Kuwar sahab...!" Manju whines as dignified as possible. She looks an over grown school girl instead of a woman bordering retirement that Veer has to swallow a chuckle.

"Bataiye na!"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll read in the paper Manju ji. I'm off to Aawaz office anyway. This letter needs replying in person."

**
Merry Christmas!
Hope you enjoyed reading. Thanks for holding on to this story!